I arrived at Sweeties, a
candy store, dressed for a funeral. Most people bring flowers to a funeral. I
was bringing candy.

My friend Dave had died.

Dave and I met years ago. He
was intelligent, caring, and intensely curious about the world. We began a
friendship, but not the casual friendship. He was not the type of friend that
discussed casual things. He moved past superficial conversation like a supersonic
aircraft. We talked about politics, religion, and economics. We didn’t always
agree, but the conversation was never dull.

As a lawyer, Dave practiced
the ugliest and most contentious kind of law—family law. He was always
embroiled in some divorce, custody dispute, or visitation battle. He would
often see people at their worst, but he never lost faith in humanity. He never
complained about the bitterness and heartache he witnessed every day. Somehow
he managed to keep his faith in humanity even when he could see that humanity
didn’t merit any faith.

I often felt humbled by my
friend’s praise. Dave would gush with effervescent praise about his family and
his friends, but not in front of everyone. He did it in private so that you
knew he was sincere about his feelings. He wasn’t looking to butter you up with
flattery so he could ask for a favor later. He genuinely expressed himself. Sometimes
I felt awkward because I didn’t feel I deserved his praise, but I also knew he
wasn’t one to offer feigned compliments.

I loved the way Dave defended
the underdog and fought for justice, even at his own expense sometimes. If he
felt a wrong had been committed, he would use his communication skills like a
battering ram in an effort to break down the door of injustice and take the
castle by storm.

Then a few years ago, we all
noticed a change in Dave. His conversations became a bit more pointed. His
demeanor became slightly more caustic. He withdrew from social interaction more
than usual as his mood darkened. Being his friend became more difficult. We all
wondered what had caused the change in his personality.

I didn’t know exactly what to
do, but I tried not to let this shift in personality change our friendship. I
didn’t see him as much, but when we did have interaction, I tried to make him
feel like a friend. In spite of the changes he had experienced, he never
stopped being my friend.

A few months ago, doctors
discovered a tumor in Dave’s brain.

Now it all made sense. The
tumor had affected him in invisible ways that were then manifested in his
behavior. He was literally dealing with a demon in his brain, but didn’t know
about it. Unfortunately that demon could not be exorcised and eventually it
took Dave’s life.

I’m glad I gave my friend the
benefit of the doubt when his behavior changed. I’m glad I didn’t judge him too
harshly when he withdrew from social interaction. I’m glad I continued to treat
him as a friend, even though we didn’t interact as much as before. I tried to
accept him where he was and be his friend.

We never know what demons are
battling in the minds and souls of the people we meet. We often cannot see or
understand the internal conflict that is raging in the hearts of those around
us. It’s okay to set up boundaries when dealing with difficult people, but we must
exercise kindness, tolerance, and patience if we hope for others to proffer us
the same virtues when our inner demons have taken us captive and are wreaking
havoc with our emotional world.

Like most of you, I know
something about battling an inner demon. Perhaps that is why I am most grateful
to those who showed me courtesy when I deserved no courtesy; who tolerated my
bad behavior when I deserved no tolerance; who showed me mercy when in reality,
I deserved swift justice.

I went to see Dave in hospice
before he died. We talked for a while, and the conversation was anything but
casual. After a while his eyelids drooped and he told me he needed to take a
nap. I asked if I could bring him any special food, and at first he declined,
but then he asked for this special candy—a gummy candy that looked like a
raspberry. He explained that I could only find it at Sweeties. I went and
bought him five pounds of that candy. A dying man shouldn’t have to worry about
his diet. He ate some of that candy every day until he finally passed.

Contributors

I was driven to writing by my own arrogance. In January of 2009, I finished a book by a popular author and was very unimpressed. I turned the book over and saw that it was a NY Times best seller. “I could do better than that,” I mumbled under my breath. So I began to dabble in writing and pondered various book ideas. Although I didn’t share my writing with anyone for several months, I found that I thoroughly enjoyed my writing time and found myself eager to get back to my computer. Writing gave me new purpose, and filled an emotional void in my life. It allowed me to be creative. I began sharing my work and was encouraged. I attended Orson Scott Card’s Literary Boot Camp, and came away with greater desire and respect for the writing craft. Today, I am still arrogant enough to think that I can succeed, but not so naïve that I think success will come without great struggles and many failures.